


so i'll stay right here with you

by greeksalad



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, alternative title: sleep deprived father has a mild mental breakdown because his child is upset, but only in the first half, i am choosing to ignore the canon timeline, platonic husbands for the win baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29916177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeksalad/pseuds/greeksalad
Summary: Tubbo plants himself at the other end of the couch, his mug held carefully in two hands. Pretending to not see Ranboo’s half-hearteddon’t you dare, Tuberculosis Underscoreglare, he throws his legs over Ranboo’s lap, letting out a loud, obnoxious sigh of contentment.“Well, this is nice, isn’t it?” he says.Ranboo gives anothermhm. (This time, it’s the sarcastic one. He prides himself on the versatility of hismhms.) “Yes, if you ignore the screaming baby upstairs.”
Relationships: Ranboo & Tubbo
Comments: 35
Kudos: 399
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	so i'll stay right here with you

**Author's Note:**

> at this point the platonic husbands and michael make up 90% of my braincells

It’s the middle of the night, and Snowchester is still.

From his position by the window, Ranboo watches as tiny flecks of snow twirl lazily through the dark sky. With the snowfall heavy enough to obstruct any visual beyond the front porch, he can’t quite make out the other houses in the colony; the only indicator that they’re even near other people is the warm glow of their neighbours’ lamps cutting through the blur of white. Ranboo doesn’t like to be alone, and, though it’s a small thing, those lamps are enough to stave off the bitter feelings of isolation that come with heavy, blanketing snowfall.

He thinks it would all be rather peaceful right now, if not for the screaming baby upstairs.

Letting his breath shudder out in a shaky sigh, he presses his hands to his face, digging the heels of his palms first against his temples, then against his eyes. The half-formed tears there sting his hands, little pinprick of pain where water meets skin.

The pain is grounding in the face of the panic threatening to sweep him away, though, and so he doesn’t remove his hands.

He doesn’t know exactly what time it is, nor how long it’s been since he’s slept. What he _does_ know is that they put Michael to bed just as the sun was starting to set and he’s been crying ever since – the horrible, pained shrieks of an infant zombie piglin – and at this point it’s been dark for hours and hours and he hasn’t stopped and Ranboo hasn’t been sleeping much anyway for, y’know, reasons, so he’s already exhausted, and _pleasepleaseplease,_ he just wants Michael to stop crying.

Tubbo’s been peacefully conked out in the bottom bunk for the last few hours. Ranboo wishes he could join him, but he _can’t._ Michael’s cries bounce around in his head until his ears ring and fill his heart with a crushing, sorrowful weight. It _hurts._

Despite all the time and effort he’s invested into emotional repression, hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes _._ He just wants to _sleep._

(He wonders if it’s some enderman instinct – being so protective over your young that the sound of their cries causes you physical pain. He wouldn’t know, though; he’s got no one to teach him about that side of him, and if he ever did, they’ve long since been forgotten.)

Ranboo wants _so badly_ to go pick him up, but all the books that he and Tubbo have read say that you just have to let them cry it out, no matter how much it hurts.

So he sits, and he stays, and he rests his head in his hands and tries to focus on the texture of the rug beneath his bare feet.

“He’s still going?”

The voice is soft, a note of concern written in it, but Ranboo starts violently anyway.

Poking his head out of their bedroom is a sleep-rumpled Tubbo. His hair is an absolute mess, sticking out at gravity-defying angles, and his mouth is still half-open in a yawn. Ranboo can’t help but notice with a tiny spark of happiness that he’s wearing his _#1 Best Dad_ shirt. It had originally started out as a gift to Ranboo, but after Ranboo had forgotten who Michael was for the fourth time, Tubbo had claimed it for his own. Ranboo couldn’t even bring himself to be offended, because:

  1. He couldn’t exactly argue with that; forgetting about your adopted son was not #1 Best Dad behaviour.
  2. And this was perhaps the most important reason - Tubbo looked _absolutely_ _hilarious_ in the thing, because what was a loose t-shirt on Ranboo was practically a dress on him. Watching a grumpy, half-asleep Tubbo shuffle around their house in the morning in that massive shirt was always a highlight of his day.



Tubbo pads across the cold floorboards, one hand carding through his hair in an unsuccessful attempt at wrangling his curls. “It’s four in the morning, dude – I thought he’d have cried himself to sleep by now.”

Ranboo lets out a dry huff of a laugh. “Nope. I think he’s gotten worse, actually,” he says, ducking his head to stare at his lap. His voice is hoarse from disuse. Now that he thinks about it, his throat is dry, too. He’s been sitting here in silence for a long time, apparently.

Beside him, the couch dips under a new weight, and there’s a gentle pressure against Ranboo’s side. “You doing okay, big man?” Tubbo asks quietly, and Ranboo’s nodding before he’s even finished the sentence.

“Fine.”

Tubbo doesn’t need to say a single thing to tell him he doesn’t believe that; all he does is gently cradle one of Ranboo’s hands in his own. It’s only once the grounding touch is there that Ranboo realises his hands are shaking.

“Have you gotten any sleep?” Tubbo asks, but the way he says it makes Ranboo think he already knows the answer.

He shakes his head, clears his throat. “Not really, no.”

Tubbo makes a small noise next to him; Ranboo can’t tell if it’s disappointment or concern.

“You look exhausted, Boo.” Ranboo gives a little _mhm,_ and Tubbo lets go of his hand, giving his knee a reassuring squeeze. “You stay here. I’ll go make us a drink.”

The couch suddenly feels very cold without Tubbo there. Ranboo can hear him rattling around in the kitchen, pulling open drawers and slamming them shut far too aggressively, as per usual. It’s barely audible over the sound of Michael’s cries, but Ranboo tries to focus on it anyway, releasing a calming, albeit shaky, breath out through his nose.

By the time Tubbo comes back, two mugs in hand, Ranboo’s calmed himself enough to properly relax back against the couch, fingers fidgeting absently with a cushion he’s pulled onto his lap.

“Here you go, my good sir,” Tubbo says, presenting Ranboo’s drink to him with a flourish of a hand and a bow. “One chamomile tea for the gentleman.”

Ranboo snorts at his friend’s ridiculousness, a smile quirking the corners of his lips. As strange as Tubbo may be sometimes, it’s far easier to calm down when there’s another person to distract you, and Tubbo is nothing if not endlessly distracting. He already feels more settled than he has in hours. “Thank you,” he says softly, and hopes Tubbo knows it’s not just for the tea.

Raising his mug up to his chin, he closes his eyes and breathes in the warm steam, letting the soothing, flowery scent soak all the way into his bones like a balm. It’s nice. Maybe he should drink tea more often. He doesn’t actually, like, own any himself, but he’s pretty sure Techno does; he’ll steal some while Techno’s off… doing whatever it is he does in his spare time. That man is an absolute mystery. Phil’s nice, though. He likes Phil.

When he opens his eyes again, Tubbo’s planted himself at the other end of the couch, his own mug held carefully in two hands. Pretending to not see Ranboo’s half-hearted _don’t you dare, Tuberculosis Underscore_ glare, he throws his legs over Ranboo’s lap, letting out a loud, obnoxious sigh of contentment. 

“Well, this is nice, isn’t it?” he says.

Ranboo gives another _mhm_. (This time, it’s the sarcastic one. He prides himself on the versatility of his _mhm_ s.) “Yes, if you ignore the screaming baby upstairs.”

(It’s good that he’s calmed himself enough to joke about it, he thinks.)

Tubbo waves a hand carelessly, almost spilling his drink everywhere. “It’s background ambience, Boo. Adds to the mood.”

Rather than ask about whatever _that_ means, Ranboo pursues his new train of thought as his eyes catch Tubbo’s mug – more specifically, the contents of said mug. “Tubbo, is that _coffee?_ ”

Without breaking eye contact, Tubbo raises the mug to his lips, takes a large gulp, then slowly lowers it back down. There’s a beat, then: “So what if it is?”

“Tubbo, it’s _four in the morning._ ”

“I see no issue with this.”

“You have an _addiction._ ”

“Keep up this kind of negativity, Mr Boo,” Tubbo says, tilting his chin haughtily (though the effect is ruined somewhat by his atrocious bedhead), “and it’ll be a fourth divorce for you.”

The two of them stare at each other for a second before bursting into laughter. Ranboo has to rest his cup on the windowsill to prevent spilling it as giggles wrack his frame. Tubbo almost falls off the couch as he laughs, his foot accidentally clocking Ranboo in the chin, and that just sets them off again.

Then, above it all, there comes a piercing, desperate cry.

Ranboo’s laughter subsides immediately as his heart clenches painfully in his chest. Within seconds, his hands are back to the cushion, fidgeting with the seams as he forces himself to stay put.

Tubbo’s expression drops, too, a tense line forming over his forehead. “God, Boo. He sounds so…”

“I know,” Ranboo says helplessly. “I know.”

They sit in silence for a moment, Michael’s shrieks filling the house until it’s all Ranboo can hear. He grits his teeth.

He’s about to tell Tubbo that he should go back to bed and try to get some sleep, that he’ll be okay out here on his own, when Tubbo gets to his feet, putting his mug down on the table with a definitive _clack._ “Fuck this,” he declares, and before Ranboo can say a single word he’s off up the ladder.

There’s footsteps from up in the attic, then a soft murmur that Ranboo can barely hear over the sound of crying. For a single, joyful moment, Michael’s sobs cut off, but they start back up almost instantly.

More footsteps, then the sound of the ladder creaking, and Tubbo appears bit by bit, first his socked feet and then the rest of him. He has one hand holding onto the ladder and the other cradling their son to his chest, and, though Ranboo can’t actually hear it, he looks like he’s making little shushing noises.

Before he’s even reached the couch, Ranboo already has his arms extended. It’s almost worse now that Michael is so close – not just because it’s much, _much_ louder, but also because Ranboo can now see how distressed the poor child is. His eyes and cheeks are swollen with tears, and his tiny mouth is parted in an ear-splitting shriek.

When Tubbo puts Michael in his arms, Ranboo latches onto him like he’s a lifeline. “Hey there, kiddo. Not having a good night, huh?” he says, all nonchalant, as if he’s not on the verge of tears himself.

Vaguely, he hears Tubbo rustling around somewhere, but he can’t bring himself to look over. His entire focus, his entire _being,_ is focused on his son. Gently, he bounces Michael in his arms, whispering little nonsensical comforts against the soft skin at the top of his head. All the while, Michael wails at a near-deafening volume right in his ear. Ranboo’s willing to sacrifice his hearing, though.

After a few minutes, Tubbo returns, murmuring a soft _move forward_ to Ranboo and slinging a blanket – _my duvet_ , he realises after a moment – around his shoulders when he does, wrapping the three of them up in soft material. Tubbo stretches out a finger and strokes Michael’s cheek. It’s a little bit awkward, because Ranboo’s arms are in the way and so Tubbo’s elbow is bent at a weird angle in order to reach, but they make it work.

“It’s alright, Michael. It’s okay,” Tubbo says soothingly. “We’re here now.” Then, to Ranboo: “I think we just broke the number one parenting rule, dude.”

Ranboo hums in agreement, rubbing Michael’s back with one hand. “Don’t care.”

Tubbo grins.

Eventually – Ranboo has no idea how long it takes because he’s once again lost track of time – Michael seems to register that he’s with his parents and that there’s big, warm hands holding him close. His cries fade into sobs and then into hitched hiccups. He’s got his face buried in Ranboo’s chest and Tubbo’s pinkie in a death grip, and slowly, ever so slowly, his breathing steadies and settles.

“There we go, little man,” Tubbo says, using his free hand (he’s pretty sure he’s never getting the other hand off Michael) to gently pet Michael’s ear. “That’s much better. Feeling good? Ready for sleep?” Michael lets out a small sniffle and raises his head from Ranboo’s hoodie, which Tubbo interprets as a yes.

With a low sigh that sounds a lot like relief, Ranboo tucks the big duvet closer around the three of them, resting his head on top of Tubbo’s. Normally, this is where Ranboo would make a comment about Tubbo being short, because he’s an eight-foot-tall menace to society and a bully, but this time he stays silent; a true testament to how tired he is. “I think your dad needs to go to bed, too,” Tubbo stage-whispers to Michael, and Michael giggles, more at the mischievous grin on Tubbo’s face than anything else.

Ranboo shifts his arm around under the blanket until he can jab Tubbo in the ribs, making him squawk, affronted, and Michael laughs again. The sound is bliss after the hours and hours of crying. If he weren’t so tired, Ranboo would get up and dance around in happiness. Instead, he gathers Michael closer to his chest and bounces him again for the sole purpose of hearing that happy little giggle one more time.

Michael’s grip loosens on Tubbo’s finger as the movement jostles him and, taking his opportunity to escape, Tubbo wriggles out from under the blanket, running his now-free hand through his hair. “I’ll go refill our drinks,” he says, booping his son’s nose and making him squirm. “You lot stay there and look all cute.”

Ranboo snorts. “You are very cute when you aren’t screaming your head off, aren’t you, bubba?” he says, and Michael stares up at him, blinking sleepily. A soft swell of happiness rises in his chest at the sight, and Ranboo rides that wave, letting his lips part in a wide smile. Michael looks at him curiously, then, with a little grunt, presses a _teeny tiny_ palm to Ranboo’s cheek. “Ba,” he says seriously, as if saying _oi, stop looking at me all weird,_ and Ranboo can’t help it; he laughs.

\---

When Tubbo returns, he’s greeted by the sight of Ranboo sprawled out on the couch (which is far too small for him, so his legs are dangling off the end in a way that looks _extremely_ uncomfortable). On his chest, anchored with a protective hand on his back, is Michael, snoring loudly in typical piglin fashion. Both are fast asleep.

Outside, the sun has just started to peek over the distant horizon, and light trickles in through the shutters. It paints their lax features in gold, makes Ranboo’s horns glint and the exposed bone on Michael’s head shine, spills across the floor in great swathes. Tubbo looks at them, his little golden family, and smiles.

Humming a tune under his breath, coffee in hand, he settles down in an armchair to wait for them to wake.


End file.
